


Enemies Mine

by imaginary_golux



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, excessive alexander the great references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 21:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: Written for the AU Yeah AUgust prompt "enemy".Arthur really doesn't want to go to war with Lancelot. Lancelot really doesn't want to go to war with Arthur. Guinevere really doesn't want the two men she loves to kill each other.But what other option do they have?Beta by my darling Best Beloved, Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw.





	Enemies Mine

Arthur looks over the field wearily. It’s broad and green and level, a perfect battlefield, and tomorrow morning it will be covered with blood and mud and the bodies of men he loves, both those of his own army and those of his enemy’s.

What a _waste_.

Arthur...would give up, honestly. He would take his men and go _home_ , if he could, if it wouldn’t lose him all respect from those who follow him. He wants nothing in life _less_ than to take up his sword against Lancelot, to lead a war against the man he loves most in all the world over the affection of the woman he adores.

But he cannot, not if he wants to hold the throne, not if he wants his Round Table to survive. Though...honestly, he’s not sure anymore that it _is_ going to survive. Lancelot’s flight with Guinevere, the evidence that the king’s most loyal knight and beloved queen betrayed him, might have destroyed the Round Table more thoroughly than any enemy ever could. If that’s true...if that’s true, Arthur could almost grow to hate Lancelot, to despise Guinevere. But...even now, he cannot bring himself to feel more than sorrow. If only they had _told_ him! He might have been able to help them - no, he _would_ have helped them. And if he had not been blindsided by Agravaine’s accusations, he might have been able to prevent the trial and the stake and the dreadful battle for Guinevere’s life, the dim light of false dawn over the bloody courtyard as Lancelot fled.

If they had only trusted him enough to _tell_ him - but it is his failing, surely, that they did not feel they _could_ trust him.

In the tent behind Arthur, Gawain is sleeping, wrapped around his favorite brother. If Gareth had died of the wound Lancelot gave him, that dreadful morning, this war would be even more brutal. Gawain and his brothers would not stop until Lancelot was dead, and Lancelot _is_ the finest knight of the Round Table; it is far more likely that Gawain and Gareth and Gaheris and Agravaine would all end up dead instead.

Not that that isn’t likely to happen _anyway_ , tomorrow. Damn it.

Arthur takes a long breath and retreats into his own tent, sending his squire away with a frown and a wave of his hand - there is nothing young Mordred can do for him just now. Arthur _should_ eat, but anything he tries will be ashes in his mouth. Tomorrow morning - tomorrow he’ll choke down some porridge and dried meat, enough to give him strength for the battle. Tonight he will fast, as he did during his knighthood vigil so many years ago, and keep vigil for the friendship and love he has lost.

He strips off his armor, sets aside Excalibur and its scabbard, kneels down beside the bed and bows his head, praying to whichever god cares to listen for - he’s not even sure what. A reason not to fight tomorrow, not to kill his greatest friend or die at his friend’s hands.

A miracle.

Somewhat to his surprise, as the second watch calls the second hour after midnight, when his knees are sore and his eyes are scratchy from lack of sleep, he gets one.

There’s a soft sound, a knife through cloth, and he looks up blearily to see that the back of his tent has been slit open, and two forms are slipping through it, black against the distant torchlight. Two forms he’d know in perfect darkness, in the middle of a hurricane, anywhere in the world. Arthur’s jaw drops. He can’t form words for a long moment, too stunned to croak even the smallest sound, and then the smaller figure has reached him and dropped down on her knees in front of him, reaching out to catch his hands in hers.

“Arthur,” Guinevere says softly, too softly to be heard beyond the walls of the tent. “Arthur, I’m so sorry.” And then Lancelot is kneeling beside her, head bowed, hands in front of him like they’ve been bound - like he’s offering them in fealty again. Arthur stares in shock.

“Arthur,” Lancelot says quietly. “My king.”

“What are you _doing_?” Arthur breathes. “You - if you’re caught here, you mad creatures -”

“I cannot fight you, my beloved king,” Lancelot says, softly but clearly. “Not even for Guinevere can I raise sword against you.”

“I would - I would rather die myself than see the men I love go to battle,” Guinevere says miserably. “Arthur, my king, my husband, I - I should have died that morning, I should have burned, I know it. If you - if you bring me out between the armies and - and finish it, then this can all be over. You won’t have to fight. This damned idiotic war can be _over_ , don’t you see?”

Arthur gapes. “You cannot be serious,” he says at last. “You - Lancelot, you cannot mean to let her do this.”

“It is her life, my king,” Lancelot says miserably. “And I cannot - I cannot see any other way. If we fled together, she and I, you would have to pursue us, even as you have; if we escaped you, it would destroy your reputation, and if you came upon us and gave battle - I cannot bear to raise sword against you, but to die without defending myself is an abhorrent thought -”

Arthur stops them both with an upraised hand. “Wait,” he says quietly, because something they’ve said has sparked a tiny idea somewhere deep in his mind. In the silence, he waits for the idea to grow, to flower, until it is huge and bright and beautiful.

“You do not regret your love,” he says at last, thoughtfully.

“No,” Guinevere says. “The harm I have done you, the breaking of my oaths, the hurt I have done the kingdom - all that I regret. But not loving Lancelot.”

“Even as she says,” Lancelot agrees. “Loving her was - an inevitable thing, like loving _you_ , my king. I cannot regret it, even now.”

“I see,” Arthur says slowly. “Very well. Go back to your army, Lancelot, and Guinevere with you - this must be done in sight of all, not secretly in the night, if it is to work. And tomorrow, send out a man to ask parley with me, and this is what we will do…”

*

Arthur brings Agravaine and Gawain with him to the parley, because if this is to work, they are the two who must be convinced. Lancelot has brought only himself and Guinevere. If this _doesn’t_ work, Arthur is going to have to watch both of them die, and while he might survive the sight - he cannot die while Camelot needs him - it will cripple him forever.

“Speak your piece,” he says to Lancelot, trying to look stern and imposing. If this looks scripted, if this does not convince Agravaine and Gawain - well, it doesn’t bear thinking on, and Arthur hasn’t any time to spare for panicking anyhow.

Lancelot looks at Guinevere for a moment, and Guinevere nods, firm and queenly, and in perfect, graceful unison, they go down on their knees in the dew-wet grass and bow their heads. “My king,” Lancelot says loudly, voice ringing out over the field, “I will not raise my sword against you. My life is yours; do with it what you will.”

Guinevere raises her head just enough to meet Arthur’s eyes. “My king,” she says, just as clearly, “my life is yours. What harm I have done you, let me atone.”

Agravaine puts a hand on his sword, as though he wants to be the one to cut her down, and Arthur frowns behind his stern formal mask. Agravaine was the one to bring him word of Guinevere and Lancelot’s indiscretion, too. That...bears watching. Arthur holds up a hand, and Agravaine is not so bold as to draw his sword without permission.

“The penalty for treason is death,” he says firmly, and it’s like a wind blows through both armies, the gathered knights swaying a little as thought they did not quite believe Arthur would say it, would admit it. Arthur waits, listening to the murmurs, to the disbelief, to Gareth’s tiny gasp of _no_ , Gawain’s sharp breath of dismay -

And says, “Yet it is in the king’s power to commute all sentences, and pardon all crimes.”

The pause this time is full of murmuring, and the tone is overwhelmingly of _wonder_ , of even joy. These knights facing each other across the field have been brothers-in-arms, friends, dearer than brothers; they had no more wish to slay each other than Arthur had to order them to do so.

“In the time of famine,” Arthur says slowly, clearly, “my queen sold her finest garments for grain, and gave it to those who hungered. When the lords of the west rose against me, and I rode out against them, my queen governed my people justly and with mercy. When the dragon came to roost in Camelot’s hills, my queen adorned herself in her finest jewels and set herself as bait to draw it out that we might slay it. In all ways has Guinevere been the most loyal and virtuous of queens - save only in loving Lancelot.”

There are murmurs of agreement now, knights remembering times the queen tended their wounds with her own hands, or made judgments as wise as those of Solomon, or led the defense of beleaguered castles until Arthur and his armies could arrive.

“When the Black Knight gave challenge to my Round Table, and no man could slay him, my finest knight battled him for three days and three nights without rest, and cast him down at last,” Arthur says. “When a foul sorcerer captured the young knights of my court and held them in his castle beyond the bounds of the world, my finest knight sought for them and set them free.” Gareth and Gaheris both make quiet, fervent sounds of agreement, and Gawain nods; his younger brothers were among the captives. “When I lay ill with fever, and the kings of the north rebelled against my rule, my finest knight led my armies against them, and brought them on their knees to pay me homage. In all ways has Lancelot been the most loyal and virtuous of knights - save only in loving Guinevere.”

He turns to look at his knights, massed on the edge of the field, and sees, to his pleasure, that they look...uncertain. Hesitant, even. _Good_. “Shall I who love Guinevere best of all women cast blame upon another man for adoring her?” he asks them. “Shall I who find Lancelot the finest of all men cry shame upon another for calling him beloved? Or shall I find some way - some _just_ way - to have again my queen and my finest knight beside me? Shall I desire vengeance, and set you all to war? Or -” he pauses, waits while the silence stretches thin and tense - “shall I choose mercy?”

It’s Gareth - thank _every_ god, it’s _Gareth_ \- who goes down on his knees and cries, “Mercy, my king! I cry you mercy!” And _because_ it’s Gareth, Gaheris follows his lead at once, and since Gareth was the one worst injured in Lancelot’s rescue of Guinevere, so do half a dozen other knights, and then it’s like a wave, knight after knight falling to his knees and crying, “My king! Mercy, my king!” until it echoes back and forth across the field, louder than even a battle in full swing.

Arthur turns back to Gawain and Agravaine, watching them closely. Gawain has a tiny smile playing around the corners of his mouth, almost invisible. “My king,” he says, “I cry you mercy.”

Arthur nods, and looks at Agravaine. Agravaine...hesitates. There’s something in his expression that Arthur doesn’t like at _all_ , something cold and cruel and furious. Like Agravaine _wanted_ this war, and isn’t pleased that he’s clearly not going to get it. But Agravaine is a very smart man, and he puts on a smile that looks almost real, and says, “O king, I cry you mercy for your most faithful knight and queen.”

_O_ king, Arthur notes, somewhere in the back of his head, not _my_ king, but he nods and smiles. Agravaine is a problem for later; this balancing act is tricky enough without adding anything else in just now.

“Mercy I am bidden,” he says clearly, to Lancelot and Guinevere where they kneel. “Yet mercy alone will not suffice. It does no good to pardon you your treason when you love each other still.” The silence that descends over the field is thick, almost deafening after the noise of the cries for mercy. Arthur takes a deep breath. This is the tricky bit. “In ancient times, it is said, great Alexander had a companion, one he loved as dearly as his own life. This man was mistaken for Alexander by one who knew them not, and far from being offended, great Alexander proclaimed instead that his companion, his truest knight, was Alexander too.” It’s an old story, and Arthur’s heard it sung by half a dozen bards; he knows his _knights_ know it, and have sighed over the glory of those long-gone days, when Alexander’s armies conquered all the world. Lancelot is looking up at him wide-eyed - Arthur hadn’t quite explained _exactly_ how he was going to make this work, because Lancelot would have objected, and they didn’t have the time to argue about it.

“I say to you all here, and call you to bear witness,” Arthur says, and reaches down to help Guinevere and Lancelot to their feet. “This woman is Arthur’s queen; this man is Arthur too.”

There’s a brief, shocked moment of silence, and then a cheer rises from both armies that seems to shake the sky.

*

“Are you entirely mad, my king?” Lancelot demands, some hours later, in Arthur’s repaired tent.

“Can _you_ think of another scheme which would have kept you both alive?” Arthur retorts. “I did not lie, I did not even shade the truth. As Alexander loved Hephaistion, so do I love you.”

Guinevere coughs a little, as though trying to cover some other noise, and her cheeks are stained red when Arthur glances over at her. “I - ah - think the tales of Alexander and Hephaistion which were told in my mother’s solar differ a little from those sung in your hall, my king,” she says, an explanation which explains nothing.

“How so?” he asks. Guinevere blushes harder, and stares down at her hands curled in her lap.

“I would not willingly offend,” she says. “It - they were only foolish tales, I am sure.”

Arthur and Lancelot exchange a glance, and Lancelot shrugs helplessly. Arthur frowns.

“You only stoke my curiosity,” he says. “I will take no offence, I swear it, but I would know what brings so strong a blush to your cheeks, my queen.”

Guinevere puts her hands to her cheeks with a little laugh, and then looks up to meet Arthur’s eyes. “The tales said they were lovers, my king,” she says softly. Arthur’s jaw drops, and when he glances over, Lancelot looks just as stunned.

“I owe you an apology, then,” Arthur says to Lancelot after a long moment. “I did not mean to imply any such...obligation.”

Lancelot glances over at Guinevere, and Arthur could swear that some message passes between them, just in the meeting of their eyes and the arching of a single brow. Well, they _were_ trying to keep their love a secret; it only makes sense they would have learned to speak silently.

And then Lancelot rises and crosses the little space between them to sink down at Arthur’s feet. “How can there be any obligation, if I am Arthur too?” he asks softly, looking up to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Yet if great Alexander was even half so good a man as Arthur is, it is no wonder to me that Hephaistion should have loved him so.”

Arthur can feel both of his eyebrows attempting to meet his hairline. “You are not jesting,” he says slowly.

“Never in such matters,” Lancelot says firmly.

“We have...spoken of it before,” Guinevere says hesitantly. “Of how we both love you, my king. But we did not think you would...welcome such words.” She spreads her hands helplessly. “You must know that half the knights in your court - and more than half the ladies - would come gladly to your bed.”

Times like this, Arthur really regrets the fact that growing up in Sir Ector’s tiny court meant that he never learned many of the skills that those raised in larger castles take entirely for granted. Telling when people want to share his bed, for instance. Other than Guinevere, who figured out on their wedding night that Arthur had next to no experience with the matter, and took it upon herself to share his bed whenever she cared to, which even for the last few years has been frequently indeed.

On the other hand, Arthur would hardly have _asked_ anyone to his bed even if he knew they desired it, so it may be just as well that he never knew. Avoiding temptation entirely is always easier than resisting it.

“I know that I would never ask,” he says, and Guinevere smiles. Lancelot reaches out to catch Arthur’s hands, kissing his fingertips like he’s swearing fealty all over again.

“You have not asked, my king,” he says, voice low and full of some emotion Arthur can’t quite name. “And there is no obligation. Yet I would offer.”

“Offer what?” Arthur asks, the words almost a whisper. Lancelot smiles up at him.

“All I am,” he says simply. “I am your knight, and will never leave your side again. Let me be your Hephaistion as well.”

Guinevere moves, silent as a shadow, to sit on the arm of Arthur’s chair, hand warm on his shoulder. “We three belong together,” she says quietly. “An we know our own minds and hearts, none may part us, nor will we ever betray each other again. You are our _king_ , Arthur, our beloved king; as you want us, we are yours.”

Arthur looks at the hope in Guinevere’s face, the naked adoration in Lancelot’s - thinks about the things he’s never quite dared imagine, not knowing if such things even could _be_ \- and finds himself smiling.

“My queen,” he says softly to Guinevere, who smiles down at him. “And my Hephaistion. My loves.”

**Author's Note:**

> None of the events Arthur uses to praise Guinevere and Lancelot are, so far as I know, part of regular Arthurian mythology; I just picked things that sounded like they might have happened between the stories we all know.
> 
> I am on tumblr as imaginarygolux and on pillowfort as ImaginaryGolux, drop on by!


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